


Enchanté

by agenderleadingplayer



Category: The X-Files
Genre: F/M, Soulmate AU, altho it's rlly four times one time, five times one time thing, idk friends i'm tired, kind of??? i'm really enchanted by the idea that they keep meeting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 01:13:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6308452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agenderleadingplayer/pseuds/agenderleadingplayer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enchanté – adj. French. "Delighted" or "enchanted".</p>
<p>"'Do you believe in love at first sight,' he asks with a sly smile, 'or should I walk by again?'"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enchanté

**Author's Note:**

> this is like a glorified "five times x and the one time x didn't" i guess
> 
> i'm rlly just in love w the idea of soulmate au or whatever idk i'm gross

"Do you believe in love at first sight," he asks with a sly smile, "or should I walk by again?"

He seems nice enough and you don't really have the heart to tell him, whoever he is, that you don't really believe in love at all – not the fairytale version of it anyway. Familial love, love of friends, hell, even love for God or whatever (although spend enough time in a science lab and you even find yourself second-guessing that), but not... _love_ love.

"Um," you say, because there's not much else to say, and he sits down, seems to read the confusion in your eyes.

"You see," he says, "I was just out here alone because my day hasn't been the best when I saw you over here alone also and I kind of halfway fell in love with you and I was going to buy you a drink but you weren't drinking anything so I didn't know if you liked drinking so I decided to come over and talk to you like they did in old times so –"

"Whoa," you say, putting your hand up to stop him. You realize you're smiling. Are you smiling? Yes, you are, and it's a real, genuine smile and you have no idea how he managed to do that but you suppose here you two are and he's been so kind and he has a nice soft voice so you might as well entertain him even though his tie is incredibly off-center and his hair looks kind of like a spider. "Let's back up. I don't even know your name," you start, wondering if you even need to know it, if it'd be enough to memorize his face and be able to stop him on the street one day, remember that time in the bar that night? you might ask. Do you think we can make something of this, whatever it is? Think we'd last?

He tells you his name and you tell him yours and you look at each other side-eyed because his name doesn't fit his face. Something at the back of your mind entreats you to refer to him by last name; you don't know why. You use his first name and he uses yours, and you talk.

About what, it doesn't matter much; you tell him about your work and he doesn't tell you about his so you don't press; something tells you he's embarrassed by it, although it's very hard to be embarrassed by one's own work in your experience, unless he's an out-of-work actor or works with, who knows, UFOs or something. So you talk about other things.

"You ready for the new year?" he asks unexpectedly, and, yes, you realize, it's December something-or-other (twenty-seventh? Was Christmas only two days ago? Three?) – in three or four days it'll be a new year, an important one...

"Two hundred years of these good old United States of America," he says, smiling. "Imagine that."

It's December 1975 and you don't know why you like him so much but you do. You arrange a second date, third. You wonder if you should keep your hair this dark brown; you'd been meaning to dye it blonde the next week; would it confuse him?

You keep the hair. You don't know why this matters.

  
***

"What's that?" you ask. You're six years old and there's a frankly foreboding-looking truck parked in front of your house.

"Oh," your mother says with a smile. "Your father and I must have forgotten to tell you. There's a new family moving in across the street."

"So you just decided to tell me now? Did you tell the twins?" Even at six, you have quite a smart mouth. Your father tells you that one day it will be the death of you. You don't mind. "What's their name?"

Your mother tells you their last name. "And the best part is," she says, "they have a boy about your age! You two can be friends!"

You grimace. You hate boys. "How old is he?"

She thinks about it for a second. "Nine, I think."

"Ew." You watch as a family of four exits an old car parked behind the terrifying truck. "What about the girl!"

Your mother takes a step towards the window. "Oh, the girl! I forgot about her! Yes, she looks closer to your age, doesn't she? Why don't you go across the street and say hi?"

And that's essentially how it starts, the three of you riding your bikes together like they do in the movies until the girl gets diagnosed with leukemia and there's nothing they can do and by nine (he's twelve) it's just the two of you. He cried a lot that year; stopped going to school. A few months later you see another foreboding truck parked in the same spot.

"What's that?"

"Your friend's father is going to take a break for a bit," your mother says with a sigh.

"He's leaving? But what about –"

"You'll still see your friend; he's going to stay with his mom."

Later you'll learn that less than 50% of marriages stay together after a child dies. You sincerely hope nothing happens to the boy.

And it doesn't – well, not until you're in tenth grade and he's in twelfth, and he continues to be the dorkiest boy you've ever laid eyes on. But at least he owns a car and likes driving you around and you like the same music, so...

"What do you think you're gonna go into?" he asks you one night, fumbling for his phone, pausing Spotify. "I mean, as a career."

"Oh. Um..." Truthfully, you don't know. Not exactly, anyway. "Maybe a doctor, something with medicine. Or a science teacher. I like kids," you say, as if you aren't still a kid. "What about you?"

"I don't know," he says, and kisses you. You feel like you're in a YA novel. You love it.

***

It's almost comical, the way it happens, you in your ever-present business suit and him, jogging fast through city streets. Apparently neither one of you got the weather report because as soon as you nod each other good morning it starts to pour. You both duck under the same awning; you can't be sure but you think it's a futon shop.

"Well," he says, holding out his hand, which you shake gingerly. His white shirt is soaked through and you try not to think anything of it; instead you focus on how much it will cost to get your (brand-new!) suit dry-cleaned after all this is over. "What a frankly awkward way to make your acquaintance, miss..."

You give him your last name and he turns it over in his mouth. You don't know why, but it seems to fit there, your name on his lips. "And yours, mister..."

And he gives you his. You laugh, wonder if this counts as flirting (something you've truthfully never been very good at). The rain is still pounding. You decide to take a safe approach to this conversation. "Didn't think it'd rain today," you smile. "Should've brought an umbrella."

He laughs, although it's not really even a laugh, just a loud exhale through his nose, and tries to pull a Han Solo smile. It fails miserably. "Me too. The weather's unpredictable here, isn't it?"

"New in town?" you smirk.

"Well you don't have to attack me like that!" And now you're both laughing, harder than you should. You half-wonder if it was better you didn't bring your umbrella. He looks you up and down then, takes in the soaked suit. "Where do you work?"

You point just down the street. "I was late this morning too; wouldn't have been caught in this thing had I woken up on time."

"Well I for one am glad you slept in," the man tries. You bite the inside of your cheek to keep from smiling and wonder if he's just amassed a list of pick-up lines over the years and had only found the chance to try them out now. It's hilarious and endearing and you look in his eyes and furrow your brow.

"Wait –" you say, not really meaning to. "I think I know you from somewhere."

"I think I would have remembered a face like yours," he says, and normally you'd be laughing it now you're just confused.

"No, I..." And the rain lets up. You fight the urge to roll your eyes at the cheesiness of it all, the downpour and the lack of umbrella and this man, just happening to be jogging by. You really hope you meet him again, you think, pray without thinking about it, something you haven't done in a long time.

"Well it was nice to make your acquaintance, sir." You give him one final smile.

"And I yours." He turns to go, stops, thinks. "You know, I..." A smile. "I have a feeling, just...somewhere. I have a feeling you're gonna change the world one day, do you know that?"

You smile at your shoes; by the time you look up he's gone.

***

"Ma'am..." You turn around; the head nurse comes running up to you, her face red. "We have a new one coming in. He's lost a leg; I think he's unconscious. He's losing a lot of blood..."

The creak of the gurney draws your attention and you whip your head around. Yes, indeed, there he is, you think, as if identifying his leg (or lack thereof) was an intellectual leap. You straighten your hat (you've always hated them, the hats, but they make you wear them) and motion to the woman pushing the gurney to hand it over. "I'll take it from here," you say, and you do, wheeling the man into the nearest room.

His eyelids flutter open once you've gotten everything in order, something you wouldn't have expected from a man who'd just gotten his leg blown off. "Hi," he says, as if it's every day he wakes up in an army hospital. "I miss anything on the lines while I was out?"

"Your right leg," you say, and he looks down.

"Oh, it appears so. I –" He tries to sit up and cries in pain. You rush over to the side of the bed, lower him back down.

"You don't want to do that," you manage in the nicest voice possible. "We'll get you bandaged up and then sent home soon enough, but right now you have to bear with me. And you can't be sitting up right now."

"Whatever you say, Doc," the man says. You turn to look back at him and he's out again.

You come back in to work the next morning and immediately go to his room, not quite sure why you're doing it, but feeling a great need to check on him all the same. You realize you don't know his name, wonder if it matters, how much it matters.

"Hey," he says when you walk in, smiles as if he's known you all his life. It's a warm smile, soft. You try to return the favor, try to forget that he's dying.

"How are you feeling?"

"Oh, you know, um..." He doesn't even have to answer; you could tell the minute you walked in that it hurts for him to even breathe. He's not getting any better.

This goes on for weeks, maybe months; you lose track. You have other patients too, of course, but you always make it your priority to check on him first.

His leg gets infected.

"There's really...nothing we can do," you say softly. His hand is clammy in yours and he's drifting in and out of consciousness.

"Just give me the facts," he smiles. "I like it when you talk medical to me."

You ignore the blush rising in your cheeks and try to state it as plainly as possible – "It's...well, we're not really sure what it is, maybe bacterial. We could take off the rest of the leg, but there's a chance that could become infected too; we don't have the best materials out here in the middle of nowhere."

"So I'm gonna die."

And all of a sudden you're crying. "Yes, I suppose...I suppose you could put it that way, yes. You're going...you're..." And now you're really crying, and you're not sure why, how long have you known this man?

He pulls your hand to his lips, kisses it. "Once I'm gone, make sure to get out there and kick some Nazi ass, okay?"

You don't say anything, can't bring yourself to. So you stand up, adjust your hat (God, do you hate those hats), and leave.

You don't go to the funeral. You don't even know if there is one.

You never did get his name.

***

You stare yourself down in the bathroom mirror, wonder if anyone will notice that your jacket is slightly too big for your small frame. In the end, you figure, it doesn't matter much. You exit the bathroom smiling, catch the eye of random people in the hallway, nod hello. It's like your first day on the job all over again; the building seems new to you. Maybe the sun is shining extra bright today.

The office you gingerly let yourself into is cramped and musty and you find yourself surrounded by men who ask you a very weird question about a man you know nearly nothing about. They show you to the basement. (Well, "show" isn't really the right word, you think. They more drop you at the top of the basement steps, wish you good luck, and send you on your way.)

It's quiet down in the cellar, quieter than you'd imagined it'd be. You rack your brain for any memory of being down here, try to match up the men's directions to any section of the basement you might know. You come away with nothing, straighten your back, tilt your head up, and march towards the office like your life depends on it. (Funny, you'll think later. Maybe your life did.)

A small, shy knock. A witty answer from the man behind the door. "Most unwanted." It makes you giggle.

You walk in and it's a tiny office, almost sad in how small it is. He's occupied with something else, a pair of round glasses on as he examines tiny pictures of something. You glance around the walls at tacked-up newspaper articles, try not to laugh. Science could do this man a lot of good, is your first impression of him.

He stands up and he's tall, very tall, even by your standards. He shakes your hand too long for comfort but you don't mind because his eyes are very kind, is your second impression of him.

You've known each other for less than five minutes when he asks you if you believe in extraterrestrials. He'll be a piece of work, is your third impression of him.

But then all of a sudden you're en route to Oregon and he lets you pick the music and he asks you things, talks to you like he knows you already, and you wonder why that is, why this conversation feels so natural, like you've met before.

Maybe you have met before.

**Author's Note:**

> so like i was going off of soulmate au or even the whole "past lives" thing but it's really just them meeting in different universes instead of the same one over and over if that makes sense...
> 
> i don't remember where i first saw the line that opens the fic but it's not mine and i couldn't find a source for it 
> 
> if you enjoyed, please leave kudos and/or a comment telling me what you thought of it!! my tumblr is demiroscully if you want to talk or anything!!


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